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She's tired of life and light; Persephone's
gone back to hell, to her beloved king
and throne, where all she has to do is think.
Her sister's parting gift was antifreeze.
I am her sister. Follow her? I could
and did. I'd wrest her loose. My fantasies
were grandiose: who frees her sister frees
herself. I've given up that quest for good.
Old tales lament the men who looked behind
and turned their rescued loves to stone. Not mine:
I sing of fire that challenged cold and lost,
Persephone who wouldn't face the cost
of living. Sister's mourning now I sing --
and summon bolder ones to kindle spring.